illed a very large volume. And here
was this primal man of the wilderness seeking admission!

"It don't matter," said Jim, with a curl of his lip.

Cholmondeley set his teeth.

"I'll do it," he said. "It's going to be demned difficult, but it shall be
done. What's your address?"

"Hotel Cecil."

"Count it as done."

The great feat was ultimately achieved. Jim received notification to the
effect that he was now a member on probation. By pre-arrangement with the
Immaculate One he turned up one morning at the big building in Pall Mall.
Cholmondeley, who met him in the vestibule, nearly had a fit when he saw
him. He had tacitly thrown out a hint that the Huntingdon was correct in
the matter of dress--and Jim turned up in his usual garb.

The wind was knocked clean out of Jim's sails by the commissionaire's
greeting to Cholmondeley, "Morning, your Lordship."

"What did that guy say?" he exclaimed.

"I forgot to tell you I'm a Viscount," replied Cholmondeley.

"Gee, what's that?"

"It's a title conferred on one of my ancestors for something he did for
his king. But it's not of the least importance."

Jim felt nervous. He wished he might have fallen through the earth before
suggesting that he should become a member of a club of this sort.
Cholmondeley was mildly amused. He had fought tooth and nail against the
prejudices of some of the blue bloods, who had never heard of James Conlan
in their lives and had looked him up in Burke in vain. Cholmondeley,
half-way through his adventure, was beginning to enjoy it. He had come to
like Jim immensely, though the latter's speech at times wounded his tender
susceptibilities.

"My deah fellah, we have a stormy--ah--passage to weather. If I may be
allowed to tender a little advice, don't talk too much--yet."

Jim's brows clouded.

"I get you. They won't like my kind of chin-music?"

"They certainly will not. Let us now have a drink to celebrate this
extraordinary occasion."

They were sitting in the lounge when a boy came in with a telegram.

"Lord 'Chum-ley'!" he yelled.

He eventually spotted Cholmondeley and gave him the telegram. Jim's eyes
opened wide.

"Say, that ain't your name, is it?"

Cholmondeley nodded.

"Wal, if that don't beat the band!"

A man that could make "Chumley" out of Cholmondeley was certainly a
juggler with letters.

"Why in hell do you spell it that way?"

"Euphony, my deah chap--euphony!"

Who "Euphony" might have been Jim hadn